


Vengeance Demon

by ashesinyourhair



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean, First Blade, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:45:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1720346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesinyourhair/pseuds/ashesinyourhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsters—the kind with fangs or claws or black eyes—are afraid of Dean Winchester. The human kind, not so much. But they should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vengeance Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings. This is not a nice story.

Monsters are afraid of Dean Winchester. They still are, even though now he smells familiar, like home, like family. They’re both drawn to him and repelled, moths that know very well what the flame can do.

Men, though, have never been afraid of him. Not Dean with his full lashes and lips, his delicate features and his freckles that never quite faded. That’s all they see as he hunches in on himself at the bar; head down, eyes down, ignoring the leers he’s come to expect, if not to accept. They don’t notice the battle-hardened muscle beneath layers of cotton and soft leather. (Fewer of those now, since he doesn’t get cold). They haven’t heard about the things he’s done.

If they had, they wouldn’t be saying the things they’re saying, in low dark tones that Dean can now hear clear as a bell. They wouldn’t be thinking the things they’re thinking. The words slide over his skin like sweaty fingers, like brimstone breaths, and his hand slips into his jacket to curl around the hilt of the Blade.

The Blade’s voice sings across his senses, driving everything else back, and a calm certainty comes over him. It will take a minute, no more, and he’ll walk out of this bar soaked in the blood of everyone in it. The Blade keens in anticipation. It’s thirsty. _He’s_ thirsty.

Dean lets go of the Blade and knocks back the rest of his drink. He slips a few bills under the glass and gets up to leave, pausing only to get one last read of the room. The man at the other end of the bar and the one at the pool table won’t follow him. The two in the back corner will. He wets his lips, smirks as he feels the tug on his line that lets him know they’re hooked. He heads for the door.

It’s a cool, quiet night. Dean strolls down the alley, a man with nowhere in particular to be, a little drunk and off his guard. He hears the door open; feels one of the men following behind him, while the other slips around the side of the building to meet him coming the other way. Dean grins.

He makes it almost to the end of the alley before that one steps out of the shadows. Dean lets his steps stutter to a halt and looks up at him, feigning confusion. Right on cue, a voice behind him calls out, “Hold up there, sweetheart.”

They’re so stupid, Dean can almost imagine what it would feel like to pity them.

He turns, keeping his movements loose and uncoordinated. They’re not close enough yet to appreciate his favorite trick. The man at the end of the alley holds his position, while the one who’d been creeping up behind him advances. “You rushed out of there so fast, we didn’t get a chance to say hello.”

Dean says his line: “Look, man, I don’t want trouble.”

“Then don’t give us no trouble,” the man says. He’s almost close enough now, still approaching, and Dean takes a step back, eyes wide and just a little unfocused. On some level, he’s aware that he’s playing a version of himself, some night long ago.

“What d’you want, cash?” he hears himself saying. “You want my wallet? Here—” He reaches inside his jacket, feels the Blade twitch toward his palm.

The man behind him lunges, wraps an arm around Dean’s neck and puts a knife to his throat. It’s all Dean can do to keep his muscles drunk-loose when he could rip the man’s arms from their sockets, to pretend he’s afraid when he can barely remember the feeling. He’s selling the performance, though—the man advancing on him grins, and his thoughs slide oil-slick across Dean’s senses. Dean feels a growl building in his throat and bites it back. Just a little closer now.

“You do what I say,” the man says, “it won’t get ugly.”

Dean looks him up and down. “Already looks pretty ugly to me,” he says.

The man’s eyes narrow. Then he chuckles, steps up right into Dean’s space. “You got a mouth on you,” he says, the booze on his breath tickling Dean’s nose. “How ’bout we put it to good use?”

Dean closes his eyes. “All right,” he says. 

He feels the man behind him relax just a little, feels the one right in his face grin wider.

He opens his eyes. “How do you want it?”

The man recoils, and Dean slams his head back into the face of the one holding him. The hold loosens, and Dean grabs the hand holding the knife and crushes the bones. The other guy, recovering from the shock of Dean’s eyes, lunges; Dean whips his head towards him, and the man is thrown back fifteen feet into the side of a dumpster and falls in a heap. Still alive, Dean thinks, and grins. He turns back to the man with the knife, whose screams he’s been regarding as background music, and whose hand has been reduced to jelly in Dean’s grip. He lets go, and knife and man both fall to the street. The man cradles his ruined hand to his chest, looks up just in time to see the Blade swing around. Blood splatters the legs of Dean’s blue jeans, and he steps back as the body slumps over at his feet.

The man by the dumpster is getting up, and Dean watches. He strolls over, unhurried, the Blade dripping blood in a trail by his feet. The man’s eyes fall on the Blade, and the trail, and follow it back to the body in a spreading pool of crimson, and the head lying a few feet away. He turns his gaze to Dean.

“Now that we’re alone,” Dean says, crowding the man back against the dumpster, “why don’t you tell me exactly what you had in mind for me.”

“The hell are you,” the man says weakly. “Your eyes…”

“You like ’em better like this?” Dean asks, and flicks them back to green. “You like _me_ better when you thought I was some dumb, drunk redneck with a pretty mouth you could fuck at knifepoint?” He presses the tip of the Blade against the man’s stomach.

“Please,” the man whimpers, and Dean grins.

“I’ve met a lot of things like you,” Dean says. “Up here and down there. Had a lot of ’em on my rack. Sometimes I wondered if they sent ’em to me special.” His lips twitch in a snarl, and he drags the tip of the blade down to the front of the man’s jeans. “Either way… It never got old, slicing into something like you. And I never ran out of ideas.”

The man trembles, eyes wide in terror. He may not have understood what Dean was talking about, but he knows what it means for him. His mouth opens and closes, wordlessly, as though he’s trying to find some plea that might save him and coming up with nothing.

Dean’s eyes slide back to black, and the world turns red.

—

An indeterminate time later, Dean emerges from the alley. The front of his jeans and his shirt are black with blood, his hands slick with it, though his grip on the Blade is steady and sure. He looks down at himself, at the warm sticky mess making the clothes cling to his skin, and wrinkles his nose. In a blink, the blood is gone. He still doesn’t feel clean.

He slips the Blade back inside his jacket. It’s easy to let go now, once the work is done and the Blade is sated (once _Dean_ is sated) with blood. Dean starts walking, leaving the bar, the carnage, the memories behind him. Soon enough, the Blade will be thirsty again, and so will he.


End file.
